


To the Last Three

by WintermoonTyger



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Breaking canon, Crazy angels, Crossover, Drama, Gen, Hallucifer, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pain, Reichenbach Feels, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintermoonTyger/pseuds/WintermoonTyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one wants to be alone forever. And if that means revenge on the Devil, so be it. Let's tear down the walls, baby, and I'll show you what it means to hate the world.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Superwholockwood fic, post SPN ep 7x16, pre 7x17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during: Supernatural, between 7x16 and 7x17 (incorporates story elements of 7x17 and beyond); Doctor Who, post-Christmas Special and pre-S7; Torchwood, post-Miracle Day; Sherlock, during and post 2x03. Assume spoilers up to each listed episode, except Supernatural, which you should just assume spoilers for the whole damn 7th season.
> 
> Events covered this chapter: Beginning of the events of Miracle Day series (Torchwood), end of the episode "The Reichenbach Fall" (Sherlock)

In the year 2005, as per every year, extraordinary things happen worldwide. George W. Bush comes to presidency for a second time in the United States, Iraq holds its first parliamentary election in almost half a century, Karol Józef Wojtyła dies and Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger succeeds him as Pope of the Catholic Church, Hurricane Katrina devastates the Gulf of Mexico, women in Kuwait are given the right to vote, and the most revolutionary of all, YouTube is founded.

But there are other, smaller things that went wholly unnoticed, for they are not important. Events so microscopic they matter to only so many, unassumingly the butterfly's wings before the windstorm.

In London, England, a fresh-faced man in a nice suit, on the cusp of 22 years old, takes his first steps into Canary Wharf, where he awaits to start his first day as a junior researcher for a small department inside the Torchwood Institute.

In the middle of nowhere, USA, a failed writer gets his first vision in a bar and winds up in the spilled remains of his drink with the start of an adventure stabbing at his brain.

In Jericho, California, a monster hunter drops off the grid, inspiring his son down the path of reuniting with his brother. 

In Stanford, California, a college woman is killed in a house fire, inspiring her boyfriend down the path of permanently joining his family's crusade to hunt the monsters that haunt the night.

In London, England, a high-functioning sociopath meets a married Detective Inspector while behind bars at Scotland Yard, striking up an odd partnership that lasts far too long.

In a pocket universe, outside the realm of human understanding, an omnipotent being locks a favorite son away, leaving him screaming and raging and crying the only way he knows how. 

2005: the year that sounded the call to arms.

\----

Early August 2011

"Castiel is dead!" rang the song of the Choir, reaching far and wide throughout every bubble and vein of Heaven. Several Earth days had passed since the Choir sang of Raphael's death and the deaths of many of Raphael's followers. Now they sang a new song, and the Host who had only just began to accept their fate to follow Castiel, not as their leader but as their Father, found themselves truly lost for the first time since their creation.

Because this time, there was no answer volunteering itself to the problem.

The survivors who followed Raphael and the spared who followed Castiel raced around Heaven aimless, confused, frightened, none of them powerful enough or clever of them enough or capable enough to take the empty throne of the king. Even Joshua, now cut off from God, despaired and lamented over what was to become of them. Thousands of angels were now only hundreds and, with all the archangels gone, none of them had in them the gumption to be what they needed. No one dared, either. Everyone who tried filling in that spot, desiring it or promote into it died.

It was Ariel—God's Lion—who remembered, by happenstance, there was one last turn to take. One last card they could deal for their endangered existence. With a single word on her lips, a long forgotten name rippled forth across time and space, a call, an omen.

Outrage spurned on some of the Host; why should _he_ be called upon? He was evil, a monster. He would destroy everything if they made him his leader, if they allowed him back into the company of the holy. But the weaker-willed angels fell behind Ariel's decision, because she argued Father was never coming home, because Heaven needed a God. Because there was _no one_ left. Literally, there was no one. And Ariel, secretly, would make sure Raphael's plans became a reality. The Apocalypse would come to pass, as it was meant to. And who better to lead the charge...than their very own scourge?

\----

August 20th, 2012

Volunteers to seek out the ancient curse of their kind were few. Admit it as they might, no one wanted to be the lamb that led them to the inevitable reign of a dangerous man. Even Ariel, steadfast in the belief that an archangel—any archangel—would be their salvation, could not quite quell her fear at the idea of being near him, let alone behind him. Like a soldier, however, she marched forward.

For four millennia did Samael have to think about the actions he would take once he was free, and Ariel was not old enough or connected enough to guess his mind. But surely he was no Lucifer. To be trapped on Earth and not in Hell was lighter punishment, right? This could not be wrong, especially when no God answered their cries for guidance and help on the matter.

And buried in Naica Mountain in Mexico, they found their last hope resting. Nestled deep in the now-dubbed Cueva de los Cristales, Ariel and several barely-willing followers gathered to group around the one crystal that glowed with Grace and empyrean, flooding the chamber and making the whole cavern glitter and sparkle, light reflecting off the rest of the crystals.

Quartz was Nature's answer to the presence of angels, much like salt and iron were to demons and ghosts, as well as many other earthly answers to unearthly things. It made the perfect physical prison for a being composed entirely of energy, with the right runes and glyphs in place. So the cage they sought would have been different from the rest, regardless of the brilliance it contained.

Samael's prison jutted from the ceiling at an angle, seventy feet in length, adorned with seven bands of large, gold rings, Enochian etched into each to hold and bind Samael into place. A regular angel would only have needed two, a cherub one. Michael would have needed five, at least (six, at most).

Ariel, in her vessel, stepped forward before the radiant monolith, another crystal as her platform. "Samael," she called.

The light from the crystal dimmed and then brightened in the space between two rings closest to Ariel. Even if angels were not prone to fear or beg in the presence of power, taking on even the forces of Hell with no hesitation, Ariel recognized the uncomfortableness that came from being watched by a sharp, unheeding eye.

So it was obvious he could see her. "Can you hear me?"

He was voiceless from inside the tetrahedron, but the opposite was not true, with the human voice resonating easily through the silica where the pure voice of an angel was absorbed and stifled. He could hear, and he made it clear by flaring up his Grace to a blinding point, had his company been anything by of his own kind.

Ariel squared her shoulders. "You have been sentenced here since the days of Seqenenre Tao, pharaoh of Egypt. You were sentenced in 1563 BC of the Earth calendar. Is this correct?" Instead of a flare, the grace pulsed from bright to dim rapidly. Ariel nodded. "Samael, you have been granted permission of parole from your cell, under restraint, 551 Earth years early. Heaven seeks your company once more."

There was a pause, and the light of Grace seemed to lazily stretch itself out inside the crystal, touching tip to tip, with a fluttering pulse to accompany it. An acknowledgment and perhaps, Ariel thought warily, willingness for complacency. Even if he was complacent, Samael was not to be trusted. God sent a defier of his will to Hell and the actual dangerous one, born of mischief and war, to Earth. If Lucifer was powerful when vengeful, how would Samael be?

With a motion of two fingers, two of the vesseled angels stepped forward and winged up onto the slanted surface of the cage, arranged themselves, and started reciting the release spell. _No going back,_ Ariel thought, hooding her eyes. _Father, "lead us not into temptation / but deliver us from evil. / For thine is the kingdom / and the power, and the glory, / for ever and ever." Amen._

\----

August 27, 2011, 7:34pm PST

Jesus Ortega was seeing things. He had to be.

It was simply panic, that was all. His grandma's antique shop had been robbed at gunpoint and he had gotten a clip in the gut. Bleeding out, the pain excruciating even in his dazed silence. He was going to die and his mind was awhirl even as his body flitted between consciousness and the unconsciousness before death. But whereas the reality of the ER, an oxygen mask over his face, and a glaringly bright light burning his retinas were what he saw when his eyes were open, when he closed them...

The room was much grimmer, colors muted and shadows in every corner, like he was looking into a different world. But the staff still bustled about him in the same, hurried manner. All the players on both sides of the coin were exactly the same.

All but one.

She was a pretty thing, caught in the corner of his eye, hovering just behind two nurses. Long, thick black hair, green eyes that were too green and he could _see_ then, and dark skinned. A Middle-Easterner dressed in all black. And she was only there when the shadows were darker than the overhead light was bright. She frightened him.

The grim world was coming into focus more than the real world was, no longer brief glimpses but brief stays, and the girl was looking more intent on a mission.

"Don't be afraid," she finally whispered, as a nurse vacated her place behind his head and the stranger occupied it with a smooth movement. "If you let go, the pain will end. Make your peace, Jesus, and you will be at peace."

_But I don't want to die!_ he cried, clutching to the last shreds of consciousness in the light. _My dad won't handle this well! I'm the last one left! Please don't take me!_

She placed her hand—blissfully cool—to his forehead and shhhhh'd, as a kindness. "It's okay, it's okay. Come with me."

Jesus found the light going as he paid more attention to her, going, going...

Snap.

The light turned on full force and Jesus groaned weakly. The sounds of the hospital were everywhere, crying in emergency as he began to code...but he was alive.

He was alive.

Jesus Ortega was dying and alive.

And he thought no more of the reaper there to take him, having no memory of her existence. She, on the other hand, recoiled away from him as life flashed back into his body. She looked about the ward, checked her schedule, and promptly panicked.

No one else in the hospital was dying.

\----

January 15, 2012

Moriarty lay on the ground, dead and bleeding and even more terrible in his cold sleep. Because now he was trapped in the game, and it was inevitable to finish. 

"Even geniuses," came the voice that had plagued him since the summer, now from the high-pitched whine emanating from his mobile phone (whereas past encounters primarily happened in his dreams, always asking, "Say yes to me."), "cannot account for all turns. You didn't account for this level of devotion."

"I," he started, mind awhirl with options and his chest making it hard to breathe and think, and his new delusional companion he spent the night trying to dispel helped none at all, "I don't-- I need a plan."

"You tried. For once you failed. This is all right. What have I been saying all night?"

Inhale, exhale, suppress a horrified noise because the world was ending at his feet and slowly shaking the world. "You're the answer. The answer to Moriarty."

"I still am," the voice purred most sympathetically. "The choice is now you die, or your closest keepers die. Is the world a much darker place when an intelligent creature loses its only worldly treasure, carefully collected and kept at the vest...or when three people lose one friend, and they still have each other to comfort one another through the tears and the pain and the emptiness?"

"The answer is them, of course!" Sherlock hissed. Breathe. It _hurt_.

The voice was silent for a baited moment. "You're not sure you have the same amount of bravery, to die for the game, like Moriarty. Oh my boy, my boy. Yes, yes you would die for your friends. Remember what John said when he left you earlier?"

The memory of John at the door of the lab, coat in hand to follow the ruse of Mrs. Hudson's ails, came unbidden like a hitch in the throat. " _Friends protect each other._ "

"A soldier. The man you secretly love and adore, because he can see the real you, Sherlock. You would die to keep that precious light alive. The man who trusted Sherlock. The only one you can see, when you are surrounded by others who have that same faith. Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, Mycroft, little Molly. Your world is narrow, and you have a compartment in your palace for just John. So yes, for him, if only for him alone, will you step off that ledge." Another pause. "And I can reward that bravery with your life."

"You're just a voice," he whispered, eyeing the ledge and now making careful steps to it. Whoever was watching to confirm his death needed this show to get on the road. "Always just a voice."

"Just a voice," it confirmed. "Moriarty hit so close to home saying you were on the side of the angels. Sherlock, even if you were him, the devil in a nice suit, you would still be on that side. Because an angel is telling you now: give me permission to enter your body and I will save you. You are my earthly vessel, Sherlock, my precious boy. I've loved you before you were even born. Say 'yes', and I will make sure you survive this obstacle."

A bubble of hysteric giggling flew out of his lips as he hoisted himself onto the stone, because surely, he must be insane. His head voice was an angel? "Is there a catch?" he asked, playing along.

"No one would survive this fall," the 'angel' lamented, as if staring over his shoulder and down to the ground. "Jump, and you will 'die'. For you must die to save your friends. But I can heal you with a thought once it's done. But once it is done, we shall flee to the shadows, Sherlock. As great a man as you are, a dead man is still dead. I will take you from your home and you will come with me as I seek my business here on God's paradise-earth."

"And if I say no?"

"You die, obviously. Crack your skull and bleed all your intelligence into a gutter." There was a sound like a sigh, but no sigh sounds like a breeze. "You barely believe I'm real; I am, but I cannot make you believe. So will you die knowing you took your life without even trying to save it, or with hope of survival in your heart because you opened up to an angel of the lord?"

Sherlock did not answer right away, only pulling out his mobile in perfect timing with John's arrival. Deep breaths, let the phone ring.

"Hello?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment. "John."

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

The worry, it was there. John was not stupid; he already realized this was about Sherlock. "Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in." Insistent, almost petulant.

The fuel for Sherlock's next words, strong and on the verge of breaking. "Just do as I ask!" Paused as he watched John slow to a halt. "Please!"

"...Where?" So trusting. John turned around and retraced his steps, only a little confused.

And it was in the perfect spot, Sherlock said, "Stop there!"

"Sherlock?" As if he was playing a child's game.

No turning back, now. "Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

Let the reality sink in. "Oh god."

Because the reality was sinking in for Sherlock, as well. "I, I, I can't come down so w-we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" A little terrified, a little scared. With every right to be. John was always more honest with his emotions. 

"An apology." The voice whispered to him, for strength and purpose. Test him, it said. Listen to his faith in you and take it to heart. "It's all true," he stated. The litany of words following fell out so easily, it twisted the knife in deeper. Lying to his 'best' friend, and wanted so badly for John to believe them all the while hoping that even secretly, John could not. Make John hate him, lessen the heartache, because every syllable John interjected with carried a weight of affection and devotion, and do what it takes to end that. Sherlock barely noticed he was crying. "Nobody could be that clever."

But John only said, "You could," and inside, he was so happy he made a small laughing sound, the voice in his other ear chanting 'I told you so,' since why would John lose faith now? This is what a friend was. To broken Sherlock, this was a friend. But he tried again, anyway, because his happiness would not spare John the agony of witnessing the act to come. Why was this so hard?

"I researched you," he said lamely, keeping out the obvious fact that it had indeed been chance they had met— _Not chance,_ the angel said, _but destiny._ "Before we met, I discovered...everything I could to impress you." He sniffled. "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

"No. H'all right, stop it, now." Stubborn, stubborn John. Stubborn John who was now disobeying and making a beeline for the hospital.

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are!" Sherlock insisted. _Please just trust me this time, too._ "Don't move."

Like a miracle, John obeyed, his free hand up in surrender in acquiescence. "All right." And it was placating, because John wasn't admitting to the reality of this.

And to enforce the concept, Sherlock had his own hand extended to emphasize the command. "Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Believe I am serious, his tone begged. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

Pray for me, he wanted to say. "This phone call is, um...it's my note." Resolute. "What people do, don't they? Leave a note? 

"Leave a note when?"

John was floundering. He would disobey. Sherlock needed him right there, and any longer, John would break from Sherlock's hold. "Goodbye, John."

"No, no, don't--"

"Will you take my hand?" the angel asked in his other ear. Sherlock's heart was shattering. The only option was down and this voice was mocking him by existing. Live after this jump? If only it were so easy. He tossed the phone, no longer partial to its silent and John's drowned out words by the buzzing in his head. This needed to be done _now_.

He put his hands out to the sides and whispered softly to the wind: "Yes."

And he leaped.


	2. Chapter 1

March 7th, 2012

Sam Winchester was going to be the reason his brother went grey and bald simultaneously and prematurely. Granted, none of it was Sam's fault, but Dean had found a grey hair that morning in the mirror and promptly plucked it out with a look of disbelief. He was _not_ that old, he kept telling himself, and he would not stress himself until he was grey by forty.

Then again, the fact that his blame first went to Sammy before he even considered it was the fault of demons, angels, or purgatory slime-muckers showed just how much he was worrying over Sam in the first place. The Lucifer episodes just kept getting worse, now that Sam was admitting—albeit still too hesitantly—every time he zoned out with the Devil playing fiddle in his ear. Although, perhaps on a level of considerable coping on Sam's part, the Lucifer in the giant's noggin was not as ominous as Dean remembered him. "Stairway to Heaven" fifty times, anyone?

The car rides since Devereaux's shack had been tense ones. Sam grew restless too quickly, unable to concentrate on anything as his knees jerked and twitched, and every couple of hours, Dean would pull over and let Sam stretch his legs for ten minutes. Sam also was not sleeping well and after Sam let slip the near accident he had in Portland, there was no way on God's unholy ground Sam was getting behind the wheel of their junker until this was sorted. Which meant stopping in western Nebraska and camping for the next six or so hours in a motel before hitting the road again for Iowa.

But Sam's troubles were not the only plague they carried, a few of which they weren't going to talk about since stepping off Frank's front steps, Frank being one of them. Being completely tapped out for options and back-up was another. What they were even doing anymore and how out of their league they were was a big one. Dean already uttered once how 'boned' they were, and Sam wondered a little who Dean blamed for _that_ , because that was still the other elephant in the room and Sam did not want to be the (overly-large) mouse that freaked the shit out of it.

Which found them that night somewhere around one in the morning (and now the 8th) in a motel room they never even turned on the lights of, Dean simply crashing at the first glimpse of a bed and Sam dropping himself in the other; the only luminescence came from the loaner laptop of Frank's. Sam had only gotten on to look more into the objective of the next hunt (he kept telling himself), a bit of weirdness in Council Bluffs with half the locals getting sick. But something else was popping up on the forums, and Sam felt a pocket of dread well up in his gut the more he read.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Mmph?" came the dissatisfied grunt on the opposite single.

Sam licked his lips, wondering if it was a good idea to rouse his brother to point out something that fell in their alley of 'weird', but telling him in the morning might be worse. He could not tell Dean at all, but then guilt, and then Dean would find out about it anyway, because it was probably going to be front page news in the coming days, if it already was not a small mention in the back pages. "Something's going on in the southwest."

"Sout'west ovvat?"

"The...entire US."

An eye opened, and Sam pursed his mouth shut, feeling guilt. "Is it our something?"

"Um, could be?" Sam gestured to the laptop on his knees. "There have been over seven hundred reported cases of people completely losing it in the last week. Thirty percent of those cases are in the _Bible Belt_ , and the rest are world-wide with no other bigger concentration."

The other eye opened and Dean propped himself up on an elbow. "How did they pin that one?"

"They're all..." he sighed a little and gave an apologetic look. "They're screaming about angels." Sam watched his brother's entire composition change: his shoulders stiffened, his face warped into barely-veiled fury, and he clutched at his thin blanket like a lifeline. Without a word or even a noise, Dean flipped over and put his back to Sam, blanket going only part way and Sam had a partial view of Dean's jean-clad ass. Wonderful. _Better let him sleep on it,_ Sam thought.

"Get some Zzs, Sam," Dean hissed suddenly, and he burrowed himself under the covers with the stubbornness of a child. Sam exhaled and closed the lid of his computer, tucking safely on the side table and mimicking his brother. Maybe tonight would be--

"Yeah, Sam," whispered Lucifer, hovering behind him, just out of sight and directly over his ear. "Get some sleep."

Even if Dean had been watching, Sam could not have suppressed his flinch.

\----

March 4th, 2012

Click, clink, shnk, went the rifle Rex was stripping, almost bored with the process despite how he mentally timed himself while doing it. Anchoring down in Nowhere, Idaho had been Jack's idea, and Rex was not going to argue even now, but it was dull as hell. Camping out in a rented barn-converted-to-living space had a novel quality, but it wore off months ago and stank of old cow these days.

But again, Rex could not complain. Literally, he couldn't. It was a far better fate for the one that would and could be waiting back in Washington D.C., with a CIA collar around his neck and chains tethering him to experimentation. Or so Jack warned him, and seeing how the government liked tickling bears that do not like poking, Rex was inclined to agree that once the US defense authorities realized one of their citizens was not only a trained killer, but irrevocably immortal... Rex didn't feel like dying for his country more than once, if one could imagine exactly what he would be used for.

And then the leviathans happened.

Rex still swore he was better off not knowing the monsters under the bed were real. And dangerous. And everywhere. But the leviathans were new, and 'new' meant trouble, and 'trouble' was being on the leviathans' just-kill-them-if-you-see-them list. "Torchwood," Jack has said with a deep sigh of relief. "Always on your toes."

Jack's phone cheeped and chimed, and off-handedly its owner clicked it open. "Anwen day's come early," Jack announced jovially and tossed the cell across the table, which Rex caught with practiced ease.

"You know you could easily leave this with someone while you go gallivanting off to wherever she's afraid you're going to go," Rex pointed out with a side-long glance. Conditions of Gwen's return to Wales was that Jack stay 'in range,' whatever that meant (though it was not from lack of trying to get them to open up on the subject, because seriously, barring some third world countries and the middle of the Congo and Amazon, there weren't many places left without some sort of cell service). The cell was a shackle; as long as Gwen's pictures were responded to, she knew Jack was still 'in range'.

Jack's smile was wide and lingering, his eyes not drawing away from his laptop. "It's probably crossed her mind. But how could I deprive myself of Anwen's beauty?"

"She's fourteen months, Jack."

"And when she grows into two-thirds Gwen, one-third Rhys, I will happily tell you, 'I told you so'."

Rex scoffed and looked down at Gwen's latest capture. Anwen was standing and using the couch as support, which was not new; she was on her way to walking. But it was not just a still. It was a video. Curiously, Rex played it.

_"C'mon, Anwen, come to Mommy."_

The footage was shaky and Gwen's voice too close, where Anwen's babbles were quieter, but not for lack of trying. Rhys' voice was in the background, too, too far away and too accented for Rex to decipher what he was saying, if he was saying anything of note.

The video was loud enough that Jack's attention was finally taken away out of a curiosity of his own. At more of Gwen's encouragement filtering through, Jack joined Rex, standing behind him and leaning forward.

Anwen finally let go of the couch and took some unsteady steps toward the camera phone. Jack laughed with triumph, and even Rex cracked a rueful smile. "I guess we know why it came early."

"Gwen's gonna regret that she learned. She's going to spend the next couple of decades chasing her baby girl everywhere."

Gwen's voice beckoning Anwen, however loud it was, was not loud enough to cover the noise the computer made, a generic chime that tore Jack away from the video, which Rex paused. Because that chime was sickeningly familiar by now.

A Torchwood program once used to collected related accounts of alien activity (which, Jack assured him, happened far more regularly in the UK than it did in the US due to Cardiff's 'rift in time and space' that had drawn aliens to the UK area far more than anywhere else, when they bothered to come at all) was now well tuned to all things paranormal and extraterrestrial, given there was no longer a danger for aliens to arrive in such concentrated flocks now (or so Jack assured him). "Might as well focus on it all," Jack had explained. "It wasn't like the Miracle was alien. That was ancient blood magic. Geological earth magic." He had looked somewhat longingly out the window as he said it. "I'll have to tell him about it, someday."

Rex didn't ask who; 'magic' was also a frighteningly new concept. But he liked to think he was handling it better than others would, given his mindboggling and unwanted state of immortality, though Jack was hopeful Rex's was more limited than Jack's own immortality. The explanation had been amazing and painstakingly confusing, because it was simply bigger than, "I can't die," and even though Jack hoped Rex was not permanently stuck like this, Rex recognized Jack was.

And Rex had the decency to not say, "Yeah, I really don't want to be stuck with you forever."

Now, Jack was giving the computer funny looks, a mix of pensive apprehension and hesitation. "So?" Rex encouraged. "More leviathan activity?"

Jack curled a hand around his fist and pressed it to his mouth. "I don't--" He cleared his throat. "If this has anything to do with the leviathans, it's a really bad joke." Jack glanced over and Rex stared back pointedly, slowly rotating two fingers in indication he should continue. "People are being driven insane, and they claim it's because _angels_ are inside their bodies."

Pause. "Angels," Rex parroted.

"Angels." Jack threw his hands up and dove into the break-down. "The last twenty-four hours have seen more than a thousand reports worldwide--medical reports, eyewitness accounts, the whole shebang--with a range of issues. Voices in their head, speaking unknown languages, and some are claiming outright to be warriors of God trapped in mortal bodies. And the word that links them all is 'angel'."

"Angels," Rex repeated again, feeling like the curveballs did not stop coming. Giving it longer thought, Rex eventually lay his head in his arms on the table without a word. There was a long pause before Rex had the courage to even ask, "Jack, tell me it's alien. Tell me it's something that has commonly masked itself by making people believe it's an angel. _Assure me_ angels aren't real. Tell me we weren't just invaded by Cupid on top of their Bible-y cousins. Tell me this is a really big misunderstanding."

Jack's silence became telling far too quickly and Rex groaned loudly, burying himself deeper inside his arms.

"I can assure you it's probably not connected to the leviathans?"

"Thanks," spoke the sarcasm.

"It's not _good_ , but it's probably not _bad_."

"No, no no no," said Rex, raising his head and pointing a finger. "I was raised in church, Harkness, and then I became an atheist because God. Wasn't. Real." He shifted his pointer towards the computer, but not his attention. "You just collect information. In the meantime, I'll try not to have an existential crisis and you can explain it when I'm ready."

Jack gave Rex his best kicked puppy face. "Yes, dear," he said in a cowed voice, and Rex rolled his eyes with a shake of his head. But Jack gave a chortle when Rex looked away to send a reply to Gwen.

_[Watch out. She'll be stealing cash from your purse soon. -Rex]_

_[Send]_

\----

March 2, 2012

Emmanuel figured out pretty quickly that common maintenance activities like eating and sleeping did not apply to him. He never felt hungry--which initially worried Daphne, but Emmanuel silently eased her worries by eating what she presented, even if he never felt the need for it (which was always)--and he was never tired. Daphne had also worried for him over that, believing he suffered from the scarily-extreme version of insomnia. So, Emmanuel made the effort to sleep, if only to ease Daphne's mind.

And it was an effort. His body simply brimmed with a static energy that would not allow it so easily, and it was a struggle on many nights, to the point where he would simply pretend, just for Daphne's sake.

It was only after discovering his healing properties did he find sleep a little easier to slip into sleep, as if exerting his built-up energy was the issue. And so, Emmanuel dreamed more frequently these days.

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of flying. Flying was a surprisingly non-leisure activity, according to his subconscious, as his dreams took him through the air from place to place at a break-neck speed, the wind curling and cutting around him and the roar of nothing deafening as it was all blanketed out by the speed. It was always from place-to-place and never for the simple joy of the experience, as if flying was not a special privilege. As if it was commonplace to fly everywhere and anywhere in the space of an eye-blink or a heartbeat. At the opposite end, whenever his feet were on the ground, letting them carry him through the dreamscapes of the night, _that_ felt like a privilege, to be able to walk the earth.

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of Hell. It was not a fiery place that media often depicted it as. It was acrid, the air burning like it was choked with poisons and acid. One's hell was personalized, and many hells were lumped together if the tailoring fit. Like a God-forsaken area called the Rack, a cavern Prometheus would understand and believe his own punishment of having his liver eaten every day a light slap on the wrist in comparison. Sometimes he was racing through the hooks and skewers, his hand outstretched, looking for someone. Someone important.

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of the water. Daphne believed this was only natural, his new life having been spawned by the river she had found him in. But he never felt alone in the water. As if a million eyes were watching him suffer inside a dark, airless bubble, fashioned into a cage made of his own body. He could not fight the eyes, but they had teeth and they tore him apart into pieces but he was still aware of everything, like a third party watching someone else get devoured. And there was screaming, cries for help and a name on the tip of a voice identical to his own but not. But it was not _him_. Emmanuel was not the victim, despite clearly being so. The name was not familiar either; it rung no bells and had no relation in his life. It meant nothing.

_Castiel._

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of a car. He did not know the make, but even if the car had a distinct shape he could remember, it would not help him in figuring out what it was. Sometimes one man was driving it, sometimes it was two. Both were always faceless, but Emmanuel always had a feeling of safety, of trust with the two. They could not hurt him, and he was there to protect them. Waking up from these dreams always left him frustrated, because Emmanuel knew these two were real. That whatever he was doing in that car, the two men were friends. Or at least his colleagues. 

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of Heaven. It was like earth, but not as satisfying and infinitely bigger. Angels were men and beings of pure light together, a mix of traditional and modern and originality all in one, because no angel Emmanuel had ever seen in media and books captured the intangibleness of them. Orbs of light, men of light, waves of light, all with wings that were between light and traditional rendering, feathers and joints and bone born of nothing more than an angel's will. It was always hard to explain. What was harder to explain was the sense of emptiness the angels had, all crying on the inside because something was missing. Something was gone from them that they could not get back. They all lost something epitomic to their existence, a single universe snuffed from their hearts. Like...God was not home.

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of the Miracle. Even with the days of eternal living behind humanity, waking up into a world only to have that gift shoved onto the population had frightened him terribly. Because the entire time, he felt so fragile, as if he wasn't affected like everybody else. With so many people being reckless initially, Emmanuel had been paranoid, to the point he could not leave the house. So when he found his body being struck by cars and bullets and blades of silver jammed into his chest, Emmanuel woke up as he slipped into the rightful sleep of a dream death, leaving him to think about the revelation of knowing that the designated Category 1s were burned to cinders. Because death was supposed to be a relief; to witness it firsthand consciously.... It was not the first time Emmanuel threw up at the thought.

Occasionally, Emmanuel dreamed of a family. A petite woman whose smiles always turned to sad frowns, marred with worry and love and desperation every time. A just-turned-teenage daughter with hair of gold and bright eyes who saw into him and through him, calling him friend and enemy in a single, wordless look. He felt no love for them and no pain either, but they were tied to him somehow. Everything else that enveloped him at night left him _feeling_ ; these two women left him no clues. They simply existed. It was unnerving to feel so emotionally unattached to something that sprung from his clouded memories, like watching someone else's family. It made no sense.

Rarely, Emmanuel dreamed of a man. Like those of the car, he was faceless, too, but the presence of the man scattered his wits to nothing. The amount of love he felt swell whenever this one invaded his reveries was on a pedestal that had no name. It was devotion folded into affection folded into platonic folded into romantic folded into resentment folded into rapture folded into familial folded into loyalty folded into truly cosmic star dust and turned into an unspeakable emotion that did not exist in traditional language (or perhaps among humans at all). And he held this faceless man, in an embrace meant for a lover or a brother or a friend or a broken soul that needed healing, because Emmanuel was always followed by a sense of guilt from this visitation, as if the broken soul was still not fixed.

Tonight, Emmanuel dreamed of the car. Both were present, not simply the driver, and they spoke in hushed tones and conspiratorial whispers that were also meant for him to share in. But it was gibberish and he was content just to listen to them, not so much the words but the sounds. A comfort, an anchor. Being with these two gave him a peace of mind, regardless of their destination. He could watch them, shield them, if they were nearby (which was an odd feeling, because what kind of 'protection' were we talking about?). But Emmanuel was not in the car forever, finally taking wing on the wind high above the land and below the billowing night clouds, going nowhere in particular for once. Which was different.

In his mind, Emmanuel even thought, _It **feels** different._ What startled him, however, was the sudden sound of a bell.

Yet, it was no average bell. The sound was like thunder, coating the sky with its single, guttural tone and reverberating the air with its power. A bell so loud and so deep would have to be the size of the moon, his imagination supplied, and he pictured an ornate bell of sky-blue and silvery metal clashing in a space of golden sunshine, with stories and depictions all across its surface, and the ball of its clapper was only the size of an apple. But it was a magnificent instrument, a work of God.

The clang of the bell had not died when the clouds above him burned a great, spectral fire. There he was, hanging in midair, watching the world alight in brilliant colors that did not exist in reality. But there was a build-up over the thrum, a slowly growing roar that was beginning to turn into a shrill and overhead, the colors warped until it was patches of blinding nacreous white--

When the first one plummeted through over cloud cover, Emmanuel had to skirt it so it did not hit him. And then the skies opened up to blazing meteors, all falling to the earth in a luminous shower of missiles, streaking the air they cut as they all dropped, as far as the eye could see. And the shrilling roar was no longer a roar, but a cacophony of _screaming_....

Emmanuel woke up to a dawn rising just that many minutes earlier every day. The other side of the bed was empty, and he knew Daphne was already in the living room by the time on the clock, doing lunges and yoga and all kinds of routine exercise things. But he lay there, silently, shaken by the dream for a reason he could not suss out. Daphne was one of many sorts of faiths, a Christian first (with some Buddhist principles) and a believer in the supernatural and spiritual next; she would tell him his dream had meaning, like all his other dreams. Granted, he was an amnesiac and she believed his dreams were connected to both his present and past.

It was not wrong; Emmanuel had garnered that much for himself, with the car and the broken man, but unless there was a meteor shower in his past, something about this one struck him as just a regular, human dream, no meaning whatsoever. He was allowed to have those, was he not?

But she would ask; she always asked, in hopes it would either lead him to his memories' recovering or towards peace of mind and satisfaction with his current life. "You only live once," she said. "If you spend too long looking for your past, you waste your present." And she wanted him to live the best life he could, which ultimately meant getting up, getting ready to face the day, and then getting ready to face her. 

He smiled to himself, as he allowed himself to stay in bed a few more minutes. As if having the choice to was the best gift imaginable.

\----

Lost in Time and Space

River flitted coquettishly around the console of the TARDIS, flipping switches that should not be flipped and openly leering at her Doctor, who was openly ignoring her by staying well out of her reach, because the alternative was in his mind scarier.

"We've been to several places," she purred.

"Yes, all exciting and best given a space of a few centuries before revisiting some of them. Goronga-gingin might need a no-revisit sign; those rocks have long memories--"

"Doctor."

"--And Fickle XXII might let us back in around only in the night season, but their night season is so _boring_ \--"

"Doctor."

"--and the day season is just so _colorful_. Maybe it won't have changed in a thousand years."

River's half-cocked smile told of exasperation and how much she loved this man in his raving meant to distract less-hardy people. All she wanted was one last adventure before she returned to her cell. Her parole was coming up, and if she was granted it, River was going to have less time for trips through time and space. If he just gave her a chance to interject and tell him _exactly_ where she wanted to go. He might even enjoy it, too.

That was, until the TARDIS lurched suddenly, sending both of them frantic to grab onto something.

"Did you touch something?!"

"When has being flung about ever been a part of my flying style?!"

The Doctor stared for a minute, then gave a brief sturgeon face and a shrug, which was then their cue for hands to fly over every knob and lever to stabilize their flight path. Unbeknownst to them, the TARDIS had different plans.

\----

The TARDIS has had many living creatures inside her vast interior, friends and family and trouble alike, most or all in wonder of her splendor because they have never seen anything like her before in their short blip-in-time lifespans. They were all easily impressed by her shell casing, the tiny blue box that held such space on the inside, just as much as they were impressed by her thief (though few were aware he had stolen her and none knew she had done the same). And she liked some of them, enough to pay attention, that is.

Usually, when new hands flew over her central console, she would have a look at who was being cheeky and evaluate if they were actually piloting her or just pushing buttons. Many times it was the latter, but a few were attempting the former, which was occasionally uncomfortable.

Then Melody Pond stepped inside.

Melody Pond was a name to know, like Donna Noble. Some names stretched through time and space as an echo that reached every surface of the universe, known and unknown. They were infinitesimal, and they were made to be born. The universe may know Melody Pond as River Song, River Song was merely the identity, not the being. Much like her thief and his names were.

But Melody Pond was a pair of hands the TARDIS purred under. With the woman at the controls, the TARDIS relinquished control on occasion, because Melody Pond treated her gentler. Not that her thief was not gentle, but he did so like the banging about. So when Melody Pond was part of the helm, the TARDIS was resigned to go where Melody Pond wanted to go. 

But there was an echo reverberating in the deep spectrum, an old, old word jack-hammering across the cosmos on the backs of solar flares and wind harps. A dangerous word in an ancient dead language. So while she wanted to give Melody Pond the destiny to go wherever they wanted to go, as they were now preparing to find a place to land, the TARDIS pulled back the control and took them to where they needed to go.

Earth, USA, Kentucky, Bowling Green, March 9th, 2012.

\----

March 2, 2012, 2:23am EST

The firefighters and police had no answer for the destruction that hit the neighborhood, a bad enough place that the media had found its way to the scene of the disaster in hopes of finding a concrete story among the rubble. They have no answer because there was nothing. Occupiers of the empty house (squatters) that was ground zero swear it was like a bomb going off. The thugs and seedy folk say it was like a blast wave. But there was no fire, no fire marks, no real injured, and no physical evidence.

But while everyone was baffled over the events, one shell-shocked survivor of the blast idled around the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped tightly around her as paramedics treated those who actually had injuries. Her whole body shook, wide-eyed and disoriented, and she whispered, "Was that you?"

The turmoil inside her body was uncomfortable, as if there was no longer any room for the creature now suddenly residing inside. The mere fact she was still awake in the face of such occupation was also rattling, scared to be so full again so differently from last year and without contact for permission.

The creature writhed, and it touched her mind after some twists and coils. Reeking of fear and confusion, it said simply, _"i am stuck."_

"Stuck?"

 _"everything i am is compressed and trapped inside you. this is usually not so. i am stuck."_ The woman was about to ask further when her body was seized with terror, courtesy of her passenger. _"i cannot hear the host. I CANNOT HEAR THE HOST."_

 _Okay, okay!_ The woman began to wander away from the scene, after wresting locomotive control into action. "Talk to me. What happened?"

The confession was painful; she could feel its guilt and self-loathing with every word of blind faith and trust in the grand scheme, and the woman had felt like this before. She had once had a husband and a child, and she lost them both at separate times. Turned to prescription drugs, fell into a stupor, could not ask for help. It was not until she had to answer a question did life seem to get better, because life had floated away under the creature's presence. She did not have to remember, she did not have to dream. She was lost in the preciousness of the creature, hidden and safe. It was not until she was released last year did she try to resume her old life, stationing herself in Florida in hopes of finding stability.

Now her creature was just as lost, and she could identify with it. She would help it. Because God help them all, the story she was being told frightened her.

Angels were among man.


End file.
